I can wade Grief
by jomiddlemarch
Summary: When Mary suffers a grievous blow, Emma Green is there as witness, and then friend.


It was a cold February day, the skies leaden since dawn and the sun had seemingly stalled in its progress. The damp crept across the sills and blew in ferociously with the opening of the great front doors. The boys all looked smaller in their beds, their scars more livid against a double pallor of winter and anemia. Emma longed to at least to light a fire in every room; it was truly a day for Belinda to bring round dainty cups of tea or chocolate and for the little girls of the house to be fetching another cashmere shawl for each of the ladies. The soldiers were subdued by the winter weather but it made their occasional sharp cries more pronounced. The doctors toiled away, each a worse version of himself—Dr. Hale duller and clumsier, Dr. Foster more irritable, deft but impatient, without the overlay of humor that usually blunted his cutting comments, Dr. Summers even less present. Nurse Hastings was much the same, evidently familiar with the effect of winter weather on the men's spirits, based on her latest discourse on the Crimea and Miss Nightingale's approach to low morale. Emma had sighed inwardly at that and wondered how Nurse Mary managed to live in the same house with Nurse Hastings and her unrelenting critiques. She herself was glad to return home every night where Belinda continued to cosset her even as Jimmy glowered.

The forenoon yielded to the afternoon with poor grace. Emma found herself at the back of the hospital, where the rooms were a bit smaller and there were fewer men. There was a second room put aside for her Confederates, inconveniently far from the kitchens or a sink, but subject to fewer interruptions of sleep or whispered discussions about fair Dixie. The hallway was dimmer, usually lit by the open windows to the veranda, but there was little sun to dispel the shadows that collected this day. Emma was making her way across the hall, on another errand in itself useless, when she saw Nurse Mary a few feet away. It appeared a messenger was giving her something, a small package or letter perhaps. Emma was reluctant to disturb, wishing to give Nurse Mary the privacy she must assume she had. She paused, seeking the right moment to cross the paneled hall. Nurse Mary seemed to open something, a square of light against her blue dress, and glanced at it. Emma watched, spellbound, as Nurse Mary dropped to her knees. Her skirt billowed around her and she appeared adrift in its ocean. The paper she'd held fell, lost among the folds of her skirt.

Emma moved swiftly toward her. She had seen people, mostly women, faint before—in the heat of a Virginia summer, it wasn't uncommon, and Alice liked to practice a graceful descent onto the patterned silk chaise in her room. Emma looked more carefully. Nurse Mary had not fainted, not quite. She was still mostly upright and her eyes were open, but she had lost all color, her chestnut hair now a crow's wing against her cheek. She seemed hardly to move or to breathe, yet when Emma came closer, she saw Mary was shaking, the fine tremor that would shake dew from a flower. Emma wondered wildly for a moment about devils and angels, the escape of the soul.

"Oh, Nurse Mary, what is it? What has happened?" she asked, using the gentle voice she saved for the sickest boys.

"Caroline, my sister," Mary broke off, "My sister." Emma had always thought Nurse Mary's voice was like a bell, bright and round, imbued with the responsibility of keeping time, tolling the news. This was not that voice. Mary's tone was low, her usual verve hemorrhaged away. Any Yankee accent was covered by the leveling of a mortal wound. Mary gestured toward the piece of paper, as if to say, "Read." Emma reached for it and found a telegram:

Western Union Telegram Company

Boston to Washington City

7 February 1863

CAROLINE HAS PASSED IN HER CONFINEMENT- CHILD DID NOT SURVIVE- COME HOME IMMEDIATELY TO TEND THE BOYS – AUNT MARTHA YOUNG

Oh, Nurse Mary! Emma looked at her face and saw the shock of grief upon it. Mary's eyes were darker than Emma had ever seen, the warm brown obscured by wide-blown pupils. The focus that was essential was gone- she was stricken blind. She sensed Mary was barely aware of her surroundings and took up her hand; it was very cold. Emma grasped it in her own and thought of what to say or do. In all the elaborate etiquette her mother had taught and all the lessons she had learned at the bedsides of dying boys, there was no primer for this moment- a woman grown cut down with only a girl to hold her.

"Oh, Nurse Mary, I am so sorry! So sorry. Your poor sister," Emma began, hesitantly.

"My poor Caroline! What will I—there is no one, the boys… Oh Caroline!" The words fell from Mary's lips like pebbles skipped across the river's edge. Emma groped to find a response that would be some consolation.

"You must have loved her very much," she said.

"She is my sister, she was—She was someone in whose eyes I was always myself and still always loved. She was the person left I could love best in the world. But now she is gone, gone and I can never see her again, or fuss at her, or even kiss her goodbye… Oh, Caroline!" Mary's words landed like daggers in Emma's tender heart. She imagined being told that Alice had gone, was gone and never to return and felt a kind of pain she knew was only the faintest hue of Mary's.

"I must go, the boys are so little… They will need me there already and how shall I leave it here, the work, Jedediah, he will not…" Mary stopped speaking. Emma thought perhaps Mary might rise from the cold floor, but she didn't appear able. Emma suddenly recognized it, the way a soldier would try to make his broken body function, each limb moving in concert, and yet make no progress despite great effort, the body disobedient, understanding the suffering better than the mind. Emma decided they would need help. She would need to get Mary to a quiet place, bring her hot sugared tea, and hope that she was able to make her own urgent plans to go North. Emma couldn't see how she alone could move this collapsed Mary from the floor, she would need assistance to get her to a chair, or to walk across the hall.

Emma considered. Dr. Foster was in the next room, making his rounds. Mary had mentioned him specifically, but with a tone of despair and worry. Emma was young but not as naïve as her blue eyes suggested and she had observed Mary's glances to Dr. Foster and his to her. She thought perhaps she noticed more than either party had. But she judged it was too risky. Dr. Foster could be acerbic and cruel, especially when surprised; she doubted Mary could bear anything but the gentlest of touches and tones. She also knew Dr. Foster to fold in upon himself, could imagine he would co-opt Mary's grief, leaving her to bear the guilt for his suffering upon her slender back. Emma decided. She must find Chaplain Hopkins.

Fortunately, on this day of quiet horror, Emma had no trouble locating the chaplain. He sat among the men, his preferred chessboard replaced by a hand-made set of checkers, watching as two played. She saw his straight back and how the men were easier with his strength to center them. She made her way over to him.

"Chaplain Hopkins, I have need of you," she started, not quite sure how much she wanted to say amid the soldiers, who now avidly listened behind a façade of indifference.

"Of course, Miss Green. Shall I come with you?" he replied, as always, picking up the unsaid. She wondered if it was something they taught him in seminary or whether it was intrinsic to him.

"Please, and let us make haste."

They walked down the hall, Emma slightly ahead to guide him. She caught herself before she could extend a hand to pull him along, a hand she knew would be warm and callused. They came to Mary more quickly that Emma had expected.

"Nurse Mary, I have brought the Chaplain. He can help you," she said. Mary was still kneeling on the floor, one arm banded her abdomen as if help contain the visceral pain she suffered. Mary looked up at the chaplain, her agony familiar to him. He crouched down beside her. Emma noted how easily he made his body match Mary's, pulling her back to sanity with his reflection.

"Nurse Mary, Miss Green has brought me to you. Something has happened. Someone is ill?" he queried.

"Not ill, my sister… my sister Caroline has died, and her baby. I am—needed in Boston, but I can't imagine, how can I go there and she is not there? What will I tell him? The little boys, I mustn't tarry but… Oh Caroline, how will I bear it, I am lost…" Again, Mary trailed off, the words exhausting her. Emma thought she had never seen anyone in such of state of despair. She must have no one to turn to, only two small children to mother. Emma could not imagine being so alone.

"Let us find a respite for you, Nurse Mary. Then we can do what is needful and we will pray," he started, but was interrupted.

"Not pray, no, I cannot. If I try, I will only curse and Job will be no consolation to me now." Emma was relieved to see just the slightest spark, like the night's dimmest star, in Mary's eyes.

The chaplain nodded. He held out his hands to her and effortlessly helped her to state. She moved like the dolls Emma and Alice used to play with, jerky and stiff, without jointed limbs. She seemed both very old and very very young. They made their way to the large parlor on the second floor where Mary took tea with visiting families. Emma remembered when it had been full of plush settees and embroidered pillows too stiff to cushion the sharpest elbows. Now the room was all high ceilings, filled with the weak grey light the day had mustered; there was a tea-table with some chairs scattered near and a fireplace half full of ash. Mary sat at the table and Emma awaited direction from the chaplain. He did not fail her.

"Miss Green, if you would be so kind, please bring us some tea, very hot and with sugar. And perhaps a biscuit," here, Mary shook her head slightly, but he went on, "a biscuit or some bread-and-butter."

Emma hurried from the room, eager to help but also to be away from Mary and her grief. As she walked the hallways, Dr. Foster appeared, cravat askew as usual by this time of day, dark hair ruffled.

"Miss Green, have you seen Nurse Mary? I want her," he said.

Emma did not hesitate, "She is occupied, I think, Dr. Foster. Perhaps Nurse Hastings could help? Or even Mr. Diggs?"

"No, no. I supposed she will turn up after whatever else she is attending to is done. I will wait for her." Emma thought he would be waiting a long time but she could not manage his impatience now.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Foster. The chaplain has sent me on a errand and I must hurry." She made to move again. Dr. Foster uttered a sound purely disgruntled and Emma was glad she had sought the chaplain with his kind eyes and willing disposition for Mary.

"Yes, well, run along then, run along." Emma thought of the glances she had intercepted, so often occurring she only half-perceived them now.

"Perhaps later, when she is not busy, I think Nurse Mary might wish to speak with you."

She had hoped to offer consolation, to Dr. Foster now and Mary later, but she was disappointed.

"I expect I will be busy later, I will find her tomorrow. She is sure to be about." And he walked off into the ward.

Emma wasted no more time. She assembled the tea-tray, found two passably clean tea-cups and made a small plate of buttered bread. There was no one about in the kitchen and the loaf was not sliced; she hacked at it and placed two, three uneven pieces on the plate, then dabbed them with butter. It would have to do. The tea she was more confident with. She knew the chaplain took no sugar, but she was heavy-handed with Mary's in hopes the sweetness would give her some little strength.

When she brought the tray back to the parlor, she found them there together. The chaplain held one of Mary's hands in both of his and her head was bowed. Emma had no words for the emotions she felt at the sight, but recognized they did not do her honor. She listened and heard the bass murmur of the chaplain's voice and the few hitching contralto responses Mary gave. She saw Mary had wept, was still weeping without regard to the man before her. He appeared at ease with her grief, able to sit with it and her without any rush to try to fix it or eliminate it. Emma placed the tray down and turned to leave. The chaplain caught her with his gaze, filled with compassion and sadness and something like approval before he nodded and she crept away.

"Mamma, may I speak with you?" Emma found her mother in her sitting room, the one that adjoined her bedroom. It was done all in pink and rose, though she knew her mother did not actually care for the color. She had once told Emma that rose was a universally flattering color and would set off any complexion and dress; the room was not be to looked at in itself and served no other purpose than to be a backdrop for whatever graces her mother chose to deploy. There were silver items, bowls and little stoppered flasks embossed or etched, and china scattered about and a bowl filled with dried flowers since none were in season. The room functioned with objects in unison, celestial objects all in orbit of her mother. Emma could hardly imagine introducing the chaos of her question but she had no choice.

"Yes, of course, dear. What is it? Something about dear Frank? Or the hospital? I hope no one has been impugning you," her mother said, attending to some papers at the little gilt table she called her desk.

"Something has happened and I don't know what to do… it's nothing to do with me, truly," she was quick to add as she saw the cloud gathering on her mother's broad brow, "Only I do not know how to behave, how a lady should behave."

"Emma, whatever do you mean? Surely I have taught you the correct behavior for every social occasion," her mother began to huff. Emma needed to find a way to ask the question before a lecture ensued. Most of the time, her mother was committed to being a proper Southern lady, but Emma had found there were certain situations that unlocked another side of her mother, a practical woman whose judgment erred toward charity.

"The head nurse, Nurse Phinney, that is Baroness von Olnhausen, received word today her sister died," Emma said. "Oh Mamma, I saw her get the telegram—she was prostrate with grief. I didn't know what to say!" It was a relief to admit that to herself and her mother.

"Well, I'm sure you offered your condolences."

"Yes, but Mamma, it hardly seemed enough. She was… devastated. I thought she might fall ill herself. It was not just her sister either, the baby died too." Emma allowed the sadness she had felt for Mary into her voice; there was less need now to suppress it.

"Her sister? That is a hard loss. And I think you have mentioned this Baroness is a widow already?" Emma heard the change in her mother's timbre, the beginning of sympathy, the recognition of equal losses. Emma knew, factually, her mother had lost two babies between Jimmy's birth and her arrival, but had no sense of the grief that had accompanied them. She knew, though, that this was the mother she had hoped to confide in.

"Yes, and I think her parents have died as well. She said she was alone. Is there something I might do?"

"You are old enough, Emma, to search your own heart, you have told your papa and me that repeatedly. But know that your Baroness's loss is a great one. To lose a sister, the first friend you will know, the one who shares the dreams of your girlhood, and then to have no family of your own… She is bereft. All that is left to her is her faith and her work. Your concern does you credit, dear. I pity her, even though she is a Yankee and my enemy, still we are women and we know the griefs of our hearts." Emma accepted this might be all the consolation her mother offered.

"Emma, is the Baroness remaining in Virginia?" Emma was surprised. She had expected Mamma to turn the conversation towards another topic, the havoc being wrought on their hotel, the need to remonstrate with Alice over her flirts with the Yankee soldiers always creeping about the house.

"No, she must go back to Boston to care for two young nephews, though I am not sure she will manage the travel alone and there is no one to spare from Mansion House."

"Then she will need a mourning veil, especially since she will not have time to get a mourning dress or dye one. If she did not wear one here upon her arrival, she is not likely to have one. You may give her my shorter black lace veil; the crape will run in this weather. If I have need of another, I will wear the long one." Emma acknowledged her mother's gift with a nod. It was what she had not known to ask for but what she realized was most needed; this was the way her mother had, of seeing and providing what was required, but so skillfully, the recipient hardly knew there had been a deficit. Emma knew that if she tried, however awkwardly, to comment on this, her mother would simply say, "But Emma dear, it is only to be a good Southern woman." Emma understood that her mother would only deflect, just the way Mary did, Mary who in her blunter, Yankee way, functioned the same way for Mansion House as Mrs. Green did for her family. She went to give her mother the decorous embrace she expected before quitting the room, but tonight she did it with good grace and a thankful heart. She left the room, in search of the veil for Mary, and she thought, one other thing. She was not convinced the veil would be enough to convey what she felt.

Emma felt strange, walking into Mansion House the next day, a small rush basket on her arm. It reminded her of the first day she had come, prettied and prinked with Belinda's help, prepared to show every Yankee in the place just how a Southern lady acted; she thought now that the Emma who had walked in had been swept away in a tidal wave. Only she was left, an Emma who understood how men cry, not just in the night, with their faces to the wall, but in broad daylight, suffering transcending every other qualification. She understood what it was to take up the hand of such a man and give, for a few second, the smallest respite from pain and the gratitude and longing she would see in response. Sometimes, in the next moment, the man would die and Emma understood that in a way too, the mortal transition, and how her heart beat, strong and double-quick to tell her she still lived.

Today was strange because she came seeking no man, but a woman. She hoped she would find Mary calmer, better able to talk. She looked about as she walked, seeking a tallish figure in a drab dress, the geometry of a clean pinafore, the neat sound of Mary's vowels as she queried or instructed. Emma saw her nowhere. She did, however, find Chaplain Hopkins and hoped he could help her. She could see the willingness to do so as his eyes landed upon her.

"Good morning, Chaplain. I do not mean to be rude, but have you seen Nurse Mary today?"

"Yes, Miss Green, but briefly. She came down and told me she would be in her room for a few hours, attending to some urgent affairs. I think you may know the reason." The chaplain looked at her, telling her that they had regained at least some semblance of the Nurse Mary they both knew. Emma noticed, as if without her own volition, the broadness of his frame, the way he anchored the room around him, not with might but with the force of his goodness.

"I will see her then, now. And after, I will be in with the boys, should you need me," she replied.

"Yes, when I need you, I will look for you there." Emma almost didn't notice how he had said "when" not "should." There were many things she almost didn't notice about the chaplain but this was not the time to mull the import of her observations.

She found Mary in the small room on the third floor that Matron Brannan had finally set aside for her. Emma sniffed. For the head nurse, it wasn't much to look at, had not been a guest-room for the hotel. It was a half-forgotten space, sometimes used by extra maids, sometimes served as an overlarge closet for storage. Now it held a narrow bed, table, a small upright chair Mary had brought against the table to make a desk. There she sat, head bent, writing steadily. There was a neat stack of envelopes already sealed and labeled. A small, weathered carpet-bag sat at the foot of the bed, Mary's darkest bonnet, grey with a dove grey lining, perched next to it. The ribbons were folded on themselves and Emma could make out the fraying at the end of one. She thought an earlier Emma would have shuddered at the thought of ever wearing such a bonnet, dull, trimmed only with the origami of the ribbon, but now she recognized what it meant. Mary was leaving today.

"Nurse Mary, might I disturb you just a minute? I see you are busy," she hazarded.

"Of course, Miss Green. I must thank you for what you did for me yesterday. And I must apologize for my behavior. It was unseemly. It, I, it was a blow that was unexpected." Mary spoke with what someone might supposed her regular voice, but Emma could hear the echo of the weeping that must have gone on through the night, the huskiness of cries Mary had swallowed or buried in her thin pillow. Her face also appeared tranquil, but Emma was a student of a woman's face and Mary used no artifice but cold water. Her eyes were swollen and red, her lips a little chapped. The tops of her cheekbones were reddened, not with a blush of emotion, but abraded by the linen handkerchiefs she had used to erase her tears.

"Nurse Mary, I have something for you. I think you must be leaving us, perhaps soon."

"Yes, I think later today I will be able to make my way to Washington City, and then on to Boston. My two nephews await me there—they are young, the elder no more than 8, and only have Caro-, my sister's old maid Betty, to look after them. And the house. Their father is a prisoner of war, so," she ended, tilting her head in a gesture of mutual comprehension. "I have been writing letters, so many letters, to settle my affairs here. This is not the way I envisioned my departure but the War teaches us that only God knows the why of every day. But, you said, you have something?"

Emma held the little basket out in front of her. "It is a mourning veil for your bonnet. I didn't suppose you had any mourning clothes with you, nor time to obtain them. I spoke with my mother about it and she felt a crape veil would be too risky, might stain you in the winter weather, but she said I might give you this, for your bonnet when you travel." The veil was folded neatly, several yard of embroidered black tulle, edges scalloped with black silk. It was far more stylish than the bonnet but Emma thought Mary would have been happy to never see such a thing.

"Oh, Miss Green, Emma, I—I can't think what to say but thank you! I know it should not matter so, these trappings, but I did feel it, the idea that I would not have even a rosette for Caroline. You can't know what it means… but I think, yes, you do, for you have brought it to me." Emma felt a lick of embarrassment at Mary's remarks. She knew, only a little, of Mary's heart but Mary's response indicated there were few who knew even that much.

"There is something else, something I made." Emma took the card and handed it to Mary. She had spent some hours on it, painting the mourning border, then carefully writing the psalm, decorating it with little leaves and flowers for everlasting life. She had found a slightly dusty paint-pot of gilt paint and made the first letters large, illuminating the Hs and Y, adding an extra fillip to "goodness and mercy." She knew Mary would be missing all the ceremony of a funeral, would arrive in Boston a new mother, her mourning forced to the margins. She thought perhaps she might carry this little token with her, in her pinafore pocket, or look at it at night when the memories of her dead sister crowded in, and she would know there was a friendly heart reminding her of God's purpose and solace.

"Oh, Emma. Oh, thank you." Mary took the card carefully. Emma saw how her fingers stoked the painted edge. "Emma, you honor me with your gift. I hesitate to ask for anything else," Emma nodded, to say, _go on_ , "Dr. Foster, he—well, perhaps you could look after him a bit? He will not ask, he will not ever ask, but he needs it, Mrs. Foster is not here and I have been trying… It needn't be much, just sometimes I find a little word, or a cup of tea," Mary was rambling. Emma understood, she thought, what she was asking and what she couldn't say. "The chaplain may help. He is such a kind man and sometimes another man may be able… a game of chess would suit them both, I think, if you can arrange it." Emma smiled. Here was a sign of God's grace, Nurse Mary's indomitable, organizing, loving spirit refusing to be subdued by the weight of her grief.

"Nurse Mary, I will do it. Though I am not sure the house will stand the howling should Dr. Foster lose the chess match. Perhaps I should warn the chaplain of that as well!" she said.

"I think the chaplain will know how to manage that. And we, you will manage the rest, Emma." Emma felt the warmth of pride at Mary's words, the acknowledgement of being a woman grown and accomplished.

"I will leave you now, I know you must have many tasks to finish. I wish you a safe journey and God bless you, Nurse Mary."

"Mary, Emma. Mary. And I thank you," Mary gave her a look better than a smile. Emma could see Mary was broken but ready to heal and she felt joy that she had, in a small way, been the nurse this time.


End file.
